


Ashes, Ashes

by DanikaJA



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Grief, Multichapter, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanikaJA/pseuds/DanikaJA
Summary: Ashes, ashes, we all fall down... Relationships are complicated and grief is messy. Set between the Snap and the main events of Endgame. Mostly canon compliant, with minor changes.  Work in progress.  This work was originally published on another site in 2019.





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: Civil War, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Avengers: Infinity War provide important background information for the first 10 chapters of this fic.

...

"Steve?"

His name, spoken like a question. The voice, shaky. Dust, blowing away in the breeze. Keening voices echoed in the distance, calling the names of loved ones who would never answer. Perversely, a nursery chant danced across his mind.

"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down..."

...

He woke in a cold sweat, dazed and breathing hard. He hurt. He ached, yes, all over, but the pain that had awakened him was sharp. He tried to sit up, only to feel his adrenaline surge at the sensation of being restrained and smothered; he heard something rip as he flexed, and he blinked stupidly in the dark. It took him a minute for his eyes to adjust. It took him a minute to remember where he was.

Wakanda.

The physical pain of tumbling out of bed, tangled in his bedsheets, was immediately overwhelmed by grief that hit him harder than any enemy ever could.

Shit.

He swallowed hard, trying to work moisture into his mouth; his tongue felt like sandpaper. His stomach made a low, grumbling noise of protestation. He was thirsty. He was starving. A metabolism four times faster than the average man's meant that he nearly always was, but this was different.

God, how long have I been out?

He lurched unsteadily to his feet, noticing as the tattered remains of his bedding fell away that he was still dressed, still covered in sweat, and dirt, and blood. It wasn't until he attempted a deep breath that the smell hit him; he stank like death. He felt his stomach heave, but it was empty, so all he could do was gag.

"Steve."

The sound of his name startled him; the voice was garbled, but familiar.

"Steve. Cap, you awake?"

He scrabbled for his earpiece; it had fallen out of his ear and was dangling down the front of his vest.

"Yeah," he tried, but his voice was raspy. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, Rhodes. Go ahead."

"I made the inquiries you requested. It's not good, Cap."

Dread crept in and settled somewhere in his chest.

"Tell me."

...


	2. Two

...

He had showered, but he didn't feel clean. He had eaten, but he still felt empty. He leaned heavily against the wall in the hall, the stone cool on his forehead, steeling himself. When he felt steady—or steady enough—he knocked.

"Nat. It's me."

The door swung open too quickly; he knew immediately that she'd been aware of his presence for some time. He could tell she hadn't slept. His face must have given him away in spite of himself, because she turned away from him just as quickly, folding in on herself protectively.

"Stark?"

Her voice was deceptively even.

"No word."

"Fury?"

"Nothing."

"... Barton?"

The hesitation was brief, but he caught it just the same. The lump in his throat was threatening to strangle him; his answer came in a choked whisper.

"No sign of him. Or Laura. Or the kids."

Her sharp intake of breath was his only warning before she crumpled to her knees, covering her mouth with both hands to stifle a sob. He stepped inside and shut the door; it seemed near blasphemous that a stranger might overhear. Hesitantly, he extended a comforting hand and laid it on her shoulder. He had anticipated rebuff; instead, she turned and clutched at his arm, gasping for air with all the desperation of a drowning man.

"Steve. Steve, I can't breathe."

He'd seen her in pain many times—patched her up, even—but he'd never seen her crack. Not once. Feeling hollow and inadequate, he gathered her in close and held her together as best he knew how.

...


	3. Three

...

He sat at the table with his head in his hands, coffee cooling and food untouched in front of him.

How many times have I reheated this?

"Steve. You need to eat," Banner chided, settling in across from him with his own plate.

Obediently, he took a bite of the toast. It was nearly burnt.

Ashes, ashes...

His stomach heaved again, and his eyes watered as he darted for the sink and doubled over, retching.

He heard Banner curse softly; he was handed a damp cloth, which he accepted gratefully, mopping up his face.

"Sorry," Banner muttered.

"Don't be; it's fine."

He braced himself on the countertop and steadied his breathing.

"Maybe just tea?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Bruce."

The unassuming doctor busied himself with the kettle. The soldier rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and laid it across the back of his neck; the coolness was soothing.

"How is she?"

Banner waited to ask until they were once again settled at the table; he had polished off his own breakfast and had started in on the remains of Steve's. The question was innocent enough, but the tension in his jaw told a different story.

"Asleep, when I left."

...

Somehow he had ended up sitting with his back braced against the wall, cradling her as she curled into him and wept like a child. The passage of time seemed of little consequence as she gradually quieted, sobs turning to hiccups turning to deep, steady breathing. At some point he had nodded off; when he woke in the wee hours of the following morning, his back, neck and arms had ached. Despite this, he could hardly bear to wake her. So he didn't; he had extracted himself as carefully and quietly as possible. He didn't dare move her, choosing instead to assuage his guilt by making her as comfortable as possible on the floor before departing.

...

"Steve?"

He realized the other man had been speaking.

"Sorry. What?"

"I asked how you are," Banner replied, arching one eyebrow.

"Fine."

The other eyebrow came up.

"Tired," he amended. "You?"

Banner passed a hand over his face and sighed, looking away.

"I just keep thinking how things might have turned out if I... you know, if I'd been able to get the other guy to come out. If it could have made a difference."

Steve understood that thought pattern well; how often had he mentally reconstructed every moment preceeding Bucky's fall from the train, analyzing his every failing?

Bucky.

His chest felt uncomfortably tight. Somehow the loss was more painful the second time around; it felt more futile and meaningless, somehow. He swallowed hard and forcibly reordered his thoughts.

"You should talk to her."

The other man grimaced and shook his head slowly back and forth.

"See, I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I think we've missed our window. She has you."

"That's... it's not the same thing," he countered, meeting Banner's eyes.

They regarded each other for a long minute; the doctor's gaze was piercing, searching. After awhile he blinked and looked down, seeming abashed.

"I'll try," he promised.

...


	4. Four

...

"Nat?"

He was starting to feel stupid; he had knocked several times, receiving no response.

She's probably asleep. Or just doesn't want to see me.

Just as he was about to give up, he heard stirring within.

"Go away."

Her voice was muffled, the words slurred.

"Nat, it's Bruce," he pitched his voice so that it would carry through the door but not down the hall.

"Go away!"

This time the command was punctuated by cursing and the sound of breaking glass. The pang he felt then was not one of rejection, but of pity. He let himself in to the dark room, closing the door quietly behind him. He briefly considered the lights, but thought better of it.

"What is wrong with you?" she flung the question at him like a barb, but her voice cracked anyway.

"A lot of things," he answered, putting his hands in his pockets. "Nat, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she hiccupped.

"A lot of things," he repeated.

His eyes were starting to adjust. The room was a wreck. She was lying on her back in the middle of the floor, staring vacantly at the ceiling, still dressed in the clothes she had worn during the battle. There were other vodka bottles; no further projectiles seemed to be forthcoming, but he shifted nervously anyway.

"I'm sorry about Barton. And Laura. And—Jesus—and the kids. I know they were your family. Just all of it, Nat. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here, before. I'm sorry about Sokovia."

She sat up then, her expression inscrutable.

"You're sorry about Sokovia?"

This was a bad idea. Damn it, Steve.

"You. You're sorry?"

Her tone seemed... dangerous. She laughed suddenly, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. She slunk gracefully to her feet, apparently in greater control of her faculties than she let on, and patted his chest.

"Relax, Banner. That one's all on me."

She left him standing there, feeling like he'd been suckerpunched, and let herself out.

...


	5. Five

...

He wasn't surprised to see her; not entirely. He was a little surprised that she had just let herself in. He was exceedingly surprised that she was drunk; he hadn't been sure that was actually possible.

"Natasha," he greeted her warily.

"Steve," she spat, pain and fury evident in her tone; he recoiled from both.

She was a hard read at the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times. He could tell that she was shaking even as she stalked towards him; he tensed, expecting her to hit him and not intending to defend himself.

That's what I get for sending Banner.

She didn't hit him. Instead she seemed to melt into him; she snaked her arms behind his neck and kissed him. Startled, he staggered a few steps back before he managed to regain his balance and push her away.

"Stop," he hissed, holding her by the wrists

"I don't want to stop," she countered.

She twisted out of his grip and pressed closer; when he turned his head to avoid her lips, she kissed his collarbone instead. Shivers rippled down his spine and he swallowed hard; he was only human, after all. He took her by the shoulders and held her at arms length, grip firm.

"I want you to stop," he said firmly.

"Do you?" she trailed her fingernails over his abdomen and laughed when his breath hitched involuntarily.

"Yes," he growled; he was starting to get angry.

She ignored him; he didn't appreciate it. He trapped her roaming hands and tried again.

"Natasha, stop. Talk to me," he went for soothing; despite her display, her eyes seemed full of unshed tears.

"I don't want to talk," she whispered this time, faltering.

Getting there.

"You don't want to do this, either," he intoned solemnly.

He felt the fight go out of her, saw the tears start rolling down her cheeks. When she began to cry in earnest, he folded her into a bear hug and simply held on. She tried to talk between sobs; it was mostly unintelligible, but he was getting bits and pieces. He let her ramble a bit, then shushed her, taking her face in his hands and looking into it earnestly.

"Nat, you need to talk to him. For closure, if nothing else."

She nodded, still catching her breath between quieting sobs. He sighed, relieved.

"What... what should I do?"

He'd never heard her sound so small and uncertain; he kissed the top of her head, feeling suddenly protective, and thought carefully before responding.

"Clean up. Sober up. Then talk to him. And listen."

...


	6. Six

...

Barefoot, she padded silently into the dim kitchen in search of coffee. Her head was pounding and her stomach was treacherous; she hadn't been drunk since the Red Room, and the effects of her sophomore hangover felt dreadful. She was grateful for the quiet; the Wakandans were hospitable enough, providing for their needs, but the country was reeling from the loss of the entire royal family... and half it's citizens. She hadn't seen Okoye since the Dora Milaje had ushered the few remaining Avengers to the guest apartments in the aftermath of the snap; she had seen no one else.

Except Bruce. And Steve. Fuck.

She twisted her damp hair into a knot behind her head and set the kettle boiling while she searched the cupboards for supplies. Several minutes later, steaming mug in hand, she headed for the natural light she saw streaming through the tempered glass walls of the common area, intending to sit quietly and think, but it was not to be. She wasn't sure who was more surprised by her entrance; her or Bruce. For her part, she nearly dropped the mug, and he all but sprang up out of his chair.

"Shit. Sorry; I didn't know you were up... I'll go... I'm going..." he muttered, gathering up loose papers and several electronics.

"Bruce. Bruce, it's fine, really. Stay. I need to talk to you."

He seemed frozen for a moment, and perhaps torn, but he did sit back down. She drew a few shaky breaths and found a seat across from him, sipping coffee that was much too hot in order to buy herself some time.

"I owe you an apology, for my behavior last night," she began.

Steve, too. Fuck.

"It's not an excuse, but I haven't been that drunk in years."

"You didn't seem like yourself, no," Bruce said, wringing his hands awkwardly. "I don't think any of us are, right now."

"No," she agreed, feeling her eyes prickle.

Breathe. Talk. Listen.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," Bruce was saying, "And I really am sorry, about Clint and his family. I wish there was something I could have done."

Guilt gnawed at her insides; she could hear the self-loathing in his tone.

"Bruce, no. You're the only reason we had any warning at all; without you we would have been completely blindsided..."

"Not that the warning did much good," he interrupted, bitterly.

"... and it's my fault you were gone in the first place," she continued, undeterred.

His head snapped up at that; he stared at her as though he thought she might be losing her mind.

"Your fault?" he repeated. "How could it be your fault? The big guy, he... he's the one who took off with me. He's the one who kept me on the inside for two years. Your fault? You're the only reason I'm standing here now, myself again!"

He was standing; he had risen mid-rant, and so had his voice. Natasha's ears were ringing and her thoughts were jumbled; she put her coffee down and her fingers on her temples. Bruce looked suddenly stricken.

"Jesus, sorry. I'm sorry; I should have figured... do you want ibuprofen or... I'm sure they have better stuff in Wakanda..." he started to walk towards the kitchen.

"I pushed you. In Sokovia."

He stopped dead in his tracks and gave her a measured look.

"I knew that it wasn't what you wanted. Never was. I made a choice for you, about your life, without even stopping to think about what you wanted. I treated you like a mission; like a mark. Not like a person. Not like someone I cared about."

"You made a call."

"Was it the right one?"

"The world was literally ending, so I think... yeah!?"

He seemed genuinely incredulous; he crossed the room and moved her coffee so that he could sit on the table directly across from her, taking her hands in his.

"Nat, if there's anything I've learned in the past few days it's that sometimes the world doesn't have much need for Bruce Banner; sometimes the world actually needs the big guy. The Hulk. Hell, maybe if I didn't fight him so hard most of the time, he would have come out during the battle; might've made a difference, I don't know..." he trailed off, seeming to have lost his eloquence.

She felt a bit dazed; she'd meant to apologize. He didn't seem to want her to; didn't seem to think she even needed to. But her conscience still pricked her.

"I should have at least asked you," she whispered.

"Maybe," he conceded, looking down at their joined hands and tracing her palm with his thumbs. "But I think... I think maybe we've both been blaming ourselves for things the other one doesn't blame us for... at all."

They stayed that way for some time, quietly contemplating their choices, turning the could haves, would haves, and should haves over in their minds. After awhile, though, she couldn't help but yawn.

"Have you slept?" Bruce asked, the doctor in him taking over.

She shook her head.

"Not since my nap the other day. And I'm not sure that counts," she muttered darkly.

"Well, you should try that," he said softly. "I hear it helps."

The grief twisted suddenly, sharp and deep.

"I'm not sure anything does," she whispered, irrationally angry as tears sprang forth unbidden, yet again.

"I meant with the hangover," Bruce said, his smile crooked and sympathetic.

She let out a short laugh, and suddenly she wasn't able to keep any emotion in check. She felt like a child; she certainly hadn't wept this much since she was one. She let Bruce tug her to her feet and embrace her; he felt reassuringly stable when so little made sense.

"Listen," he said after a bit, his voice rumbling in his chest. "I really need to look over these reports; once Wakanda is stable, we have to go back to the states, and I'd like to have contributed something before we do..." he trailed off, seeming to gather his thoughts. "It's not very exciting, but it is quiet. You're welcome to stay and keep me company, if you'd rather not sleep. Or be alone at all, really."

She didn't answer; she didn't really think she needed to. Bruce let go of her in order to spread his things out over the coffee table and settle on one end of the couch; she curled up on the other, letting her pounding head fall back into the cushions with a sigh.

...


	7. Seven

...

It was pouring down rain; it beat a steady tempo on the tempered glass. The Wakandans said it was out of season. The Wakandans weren't accustomed to pissed-off Asgardians whose moods impacted the weather. Rhodes was talking; he was trying to pay attention, but he was struggling. He was so damn tired.

"What's left of the DOD wants what's left of the Avengers in D.C., yesterday. 'Get your asses back on the right continent,' was the secretary's exact wording," he was interrupted by Nat snorting before continuing. "Steve, you're pardoned; no excuses."

"I don't remember making any," Steve quipped.

"I am not of Midgard; I will not bow to this... secretary," Thor snarled.

Rhodes worked his temples between his thumb and forefinger and sighed.

"Last I checked, you're an Asgardian refugee on 'Midgard,' dude. You're not king of anywhere. Somewhere, you're gonna be 'bowing' to somebody. Might as well do it with your friends."

Thor scowled and shoved his chair back from the table before storming out of the room. Thunder rumbled outside.

Typical.

Nat let out an explosive sigh and stood up.

"I'll get him."

"Rhodey look, I know where you're coming from—really, I do—but the worst of the fighting was here, there are still packs of rabid alien-dogs loose, and Wakanda is completely politically unstable right now..."

Rhodes shut him up with a look. He raised his hands in surrender.

"Fine. I can run reports just easily from D.C.," he paused. "I can, can't I? Communications are back up?"

"Yes and no. It's patchy, but serviceable most of the time. A few major centers took big hits, and just like every other goddamned thing, there aren't enough people left to get things fully functional. Probably won't be for awhile. It'd be better to hand off what you're doing to somebody here; you're going to be up to your eyeballs back home. Your green eyeballs."

Bruce rolled his eyes.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks for the rundown, Rhodes. It's deeply appreciated," Steve said soberly, resting his elbows on the table. "Any word on the others?"

"Pepper hasn't heard anything from Tony; radio silence. She's holding it together, barely. Apparently the spider kid's aunt showed up at the Tower hysterical the other day; Pepper didn't know what to tell her—seemed to shake her up a lot. No contact from Fury, Hill, or Barton. We just have to assume..." Rhodes trailed off. "Well, you know."

They were silent for some time before Rhodes cleared his throat.

"Well, I'm going to try to get some transport arranged, hopefully for tomorrow morning, early. So try to get some sleep."

"You too, Rhodey," Bruce tried to put some force behind the suggestion, but ended up yawning.

He sat with Steve in companionable silence for some time; it wasn't exactly as though they had any packing to do. Steve looked haggard; super soldier serum or no, he needed sleep. And food. Bruce dragged himself to his feet.

"I'm going to make a sandwich; want something?"

"Not hungry," Steve said; however, his growling stomach betrayed him immediately.

"That's a lie," he chuckled. "Come on; anything?"

Steve hesitated a beat too long; Bruce studied his expression.

"Still having episodes?"

"I'm not used to being sick; I'm not supposed to get sick," the soldier groused.

"You don't have the stomach flu, Steve. You're having panic attacks. I'm sure we could get you some meds; Zofran at least, for the nausea. Ambien, help you sleep." He stopped just short of suggesting psychiatric meds; that had not gone well, last time.

"Will they even work?" Steve raised an eyebrow; the man did burn through medication.

"I mean, we'd probably have to triple the dosage or something but..." he sighed. "At least let me get you on an IV, if you're not going to eat?"

"Just make the damn sandwich, Banner," Steve snapped.

...


	8. Eight

...

It helped to go through the motions; to play the role. It gave her the semblance of control her tired heart and mind were craving. But when she lacked an audience, the mask slipped. She wasn't an Avenger, or an agent, or anyone at all.

I have no place in this world.

Thor had no place in this world, either, but the god of thunder was easier to handle than her own emotions. He had been angry, certainly, but open to suggestion. She had been able to extract a reluctant promise to accompany them to the states, for the time being. He had taken his leave rather abruptly, expressing his intention to check in on the status of the search for the still-missing Asgardian escape pods—all that was left of his people. And to find the stupid racoon.

Alone again, she returned to her room, ostensibly to pack and sleep, but there wasn't much to do. She had already tidied up her mess, and her only possessions were her weapons, her uniform, and a few borrowed articles of clothing; these were already cleaned and oiled, or neatly folded at the foot of the bed. She sat down rather heavily and rubbed her eyes; sleep was hard to come by, these days.

Her earpiece crackled and Rhodes gave them their ETD; she listened to the chatter of the team indicating their receipt of the message, murmuring her own assent. She glanced at the clock; too many hours lay between her and something to occupy her mind.

Fuck it.

She made her way back to the kitchen; the meeting had long since been adjourned, but Bruce was still there, eating. He was always eating. He raised his hand briefly by way of greeting rather than try to talk around his food.

"You seen Steve?"

Bruce made a face and swallowed his mouthful.

"He was here a bit ago. I tried to get him to eat something," Bruce waved a sandwich at her. "He's not... he's not doing so great, Nat."

"I'll check on him."

The doctor simply nodded, and she left him to his meal. Steve's room wasn't far, but trepidation made the trek seem arduous. She wasn't embarrassed; she wasn't sure she even had the capacity for embarrassment anymore. Shame was another story. Composing herself, she rapped on the door.

"Steve? You got a minute?"

She had only half-expected a response; he was a soldier, after all, and never still for long. She hesitated briefly, debating whether to return to her room or to the kitchen, and her hesitation was long enough to hear a sound that gutted her.

"Steve, I'm coming in."

The door was locked; she picked it.

Again.

Her eyes darted around the room; at first, she saw nothing. She found him on the bathroom floor, tears streaming down his face, clutching the doorjamb in a white-knuckled grip and hyperventilating. Absurdly, her first thought was that he'd fallen; she gave him a quick once-over.

"Are you hurt?"

"I can't... I can't..." he wheezed, reaching for her.

"Easy, easy; I've got you," she shushed, as she took the outstretched hand and pried the other from the doorframe, trying and failing to pull him upright; she was strong, but he was heavy. She sat down instead.

He clung to her, gasping and choking, fingertips digging uncomfortably into her flesh. That would bruise. She blocked out the minor pain and focused; stroking and soothing his hair as he pressed his face into her chest.

"Breathe, Rogers," she commanded, and she could see that he tried. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she touched her earpiece.

"Dr. Banner, can I borrow you for a moment?" she kept her tone light in order to keep the rest of the team in the dark.

"Um... sure?" came the muffled response. "Where?"

"Cap's room."

"On my way," he said, his words too clipped, tone too sharp.

Subtle, Bruce.

"Jesus!" the doctor blurted as he let himself in, crossing the room in long strides.

"This is ridiculous; I'm giving him something," he said, fishing in his pockets.

She didn't argue, choosing instead to roll up one of the soldier's sleeves as the doctor produced an alcohol swab and a pre-filled syringe.

"I don't... I don't want..." Steve protested weakly.

"Too bad," Bruce gritted out, the cap of the syringe between his teeth.

He flicked the upright barrel a few times and partially depressed the plunger to adjust the dosage before expertly jabbing the dense muscle tissue of Steve's arm. Natasha felt him relax almost immediately; his breathing slowed and he leaned heavily into her, murmuring softly.

"Sorry, Cap," the doctor muttered, capping the syringe and tossing it into the sink before settling back to sit with them on the bathroom floor.

"You keep tranquilizers in your pocket?" she asked after a moment.

Bruce shrugged.

"I never know when I might need something."

"What did you give him?"

"Just valium. And only about half as much as I give myself. I don't know how long it will keep him down, though," he explained, brow furrowed.

She could almost see him running the numbers in his head; she sighed.

"You can do math later, genius. Help me get him up."

Between the two of them they managed to lever the soldier up off the floor and put him to bed; he was drowsy but cooperative, and seemed to drop off to sleep fairly quickly once his head hit the pillow. Bruce glanced at his watch and sighed.

"Someone should probably stay with him; monitor for side effects," he said, starting to pull up a chair.

"Bruce, go to bed. I've got him," she said, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

He covered her hand with his own, then yawned.

"I think I'll take you up on that. Rhodey wants us up at like, three in the fucking morning..." he shuffled towards the door and paused. "Wake me if you need me," he said seriously. "Doctor's orders."

Natasha saluted sardonically, and Bruce rolled his eyes, pulling the door around as he left. When he had gone, she contemplated the chair for a moment before settling herself on the bed next to Steve instead, leaning back against the headboard and rubbing his back absentmindedly, as she might have done for Cooper or Lila after a nightmare. Memories stirred, but she banished them.

My turn to be strong now.

...


	9. Nine

...

A raised voice roused him; he had a crick in his neck from sleeping upright. He glanced at his watch; he'd slept through most of the flight.

"Where the hell are we, Romanoff?" Rhodes was... well, not quite shouting.

"We're taking the scenic route," Nat deadpanned from her seat in the cockpit.

"Put us back on course for D.C., right now."

Bruce blinked and looked out the window; lots of trees and fields, very rural. Definitely not D.C. Realization dawned on him like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, and he dug in his shirt pocket for his glasses.

"Rhodey, shut up," he said quietly. "We're in Iowa."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Rhodes snapped. "Cap, help me out here."

"Leave her alone, Rhodes," Steve said tiredly, not even looking up from where he was slouched in his window seat with his sketchbook.

Bruce snagged Rhodes' shirt collar and pulled him near enough for a whispered exchange.

"Barton lives here. Lived here. With his family."

Rhodes blanched and glanced over his shoulder at Nat.

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit. Sit down," he probably used more force than necessary to propel the other man toward his seat; but Rhodes obeyed without further protest.

...

He twiddled his thumbs while he waited on the front porch, looking out across the field at the scattered remnants of an abandoned picnic. Animals had been into the food, but the empty place settings eerily remained. The sober landing party had done a cursory check and found nothing; but then, they hadn't expected to. Steve had never left the quinjet; Rhodes, Thor, and Rocket had returned some time ago. And he sat here, waiting, giving Nat some privacy as clouds began to gather on the horizon. Apparently the bad weather went wherever Thor did.

Nat burst from the house suddenly; the front door clattered, startling him. He stood up and took stock of her, warily. She seemed frantic.

"Nat, we should go. There's nothing here," he said softly.

"Exactly," she said, her breathing ragged.

"What?" he asked, nonplussed.

"His kit; it's not here."

"What?" he repeated, feeling especially slow on the uptake.

"His tactical kit. His weapons. They're not here."

Bruce exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair, thinking.

"Did he even keep them in the house? I mean, he had kids..."

Nat shot him a look.

"I know where he keeps them. They're not here," she spat.

"Okay..."

"Bruce, I think..." she stopped and sat down suddenly; he put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

"I think Barton's alive."

...


	10. Ten

...

Six days.

Not even a week since the world had seemed shatter into countless tiny pieces. And yet it went on spinning; went on expecting; went on demanding of them, despite all that they had lost. Two days, since they'd finished debriefing and gone home to the Avengers facility in upstate New York.

Clint, where are you?

"Okay; assignments..."

Rhodes' voice was also demanding. And irritating. She contemplated chucking her mug at him, but settled for another sip instead, accepting the folder he slid across the table without comment.

"Romanoff, you're on role call. They want you to try to establish contact with any agents left in the field; try to find out who we've still got, who got dusted, and who we lost in the aftermath. Notify their families, if you can," he paused and held her gaze for a moment. "I suggested that you'd had the most experience with irregular communication channels."

Alright Rhodes. Maybe you're not so bad.

"Banner, you've got like, ten PhDs or something—"

"Seven!" Bruce squawked.

Rhodes rolled his eyes and continued.

"So they've got you doing a little bit of everything, and I'm just going to be honest, I don't understand most of it."

He handed Bruce a particularly fat folder; the doctor immediately stripped off the rubberbands holding it closed and began to flick through it, making quiet sounds of incredulity.

"Thor, they want you to head back to D.C. They've still got a lot of red tape to get through—it's not every day we take refugees from space. Hell, we were barely taking refugees from warzones, before. Anyway, they'd appreciate your assistance with the Asgardians."

Thor left his folder on the table and stood up to depart.

"Come, Rabbit."

Rhodes blinked and gaped for a moment as they were leaving.

"That... that's fine, I guess. They didn't believe me about the talking racoon anyway..." he shook himself and cleared his throat. "Okay. Steve, you and I are on PR. They want us as visible as possible, assisting with relief efforts in as many major cities as we can get to. My rig is downstairs in the garage, getting an Iron Patriot paintjob, but you were easy enough."

He tossed Steve a slim folder and small duffel. Setting the folder aside, the soldier unzipped the duffel and pulled out his distinctive uniform. Natasha heard his breath hitch from across the room; she watched his eyes glaze over and knew he was about to bolt.

"Excuse me," he managed to pant before he abruptly fled.

"Should I...?" Bruce started to get up, but Natasha gestured for him to stay and he sat back down.

"Am I missing something? What's his problem?" Rhodes demanded brusquely.

"He's having a hard time, Rhodey. Give him a break," Banner said placatingly, ever the peacemaker.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but the whole damn world is having a hard time. We've got to keep our shit together," Rhodes said vehemently.

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Do you even hear yourself?"

Rhodes bristled at her venomous tone, but she didn't care. She stood up and leaned across the table to glare at him.

"He already woke up once to find out that everyone he knew and loved was dead, and he just got back from reliving round two for the suits. He's a goddamn human being, Rhodes, not just Captain fucking America!"

"That's not what I—" he tried to backpedal, but Natasha cut him off.

"Fuck off, Rhodes," she snarled, tossing her folder at his chest.

He caught most of it; some of the contents slid to the floor. He clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

"Maybe you should take a walk, Agent Romanoff," he hissed.

"Fine," she scoffed, brushing off Bruce's restraining hand at her elbow. "I'll go."

...

Bruce found her later, working the heavy bag in the gym. It felt good to hit something. Satisfying, anyway.

"I explained to Rhodey," he said.

She stopped boxing to stare at him; he put up both hands in mock surrender.

"Don't shoot. I didn't have much choice."

She threw an elbow at the bag, making him jump, before stopping to take a long draught from her water bottle. She ran her wrapped forearm across her brow to mop up some of the sweat before speaking.

"So? What now?"

"He's going to try to buy Steve a little time; he's already on thin ice with the DOD, though, Nat. I'm not sure how much Rhodey can do. We've got to convince Steve to let us help him, or he's only going to get worse."

"He's stubborn," she muttered, her mouth twisting. "You know where he's from, there is no help, you just have to muddle through and move on."

"Yeah, well, these days we have meds, and therapy," Bruce grumbled, looking a bit lost.

Therapy.

"What?" Bruce must have caught her expression.

"Sam." Bruce blinked at her. "Falcon."

There; recognition.

"He used to run a support group down at the VA in D.C," she explained.

"You think we can convince Steve to attend a support group?" he queried skeptically.

"I don't know. Maybe. I'll think about it," she reponded thoughtfully, biting her lip.

Bruce smiled then and touched her cheek; he didn't seem to be able to help himself. She leaned into the touch to let him know it was fine, before he could start apologizing. He was always apologizing.

"Don't think too hard," he said softly.

"I won't," she replied easily, slipping past him to head for the locker room. "That's more your style."

She heard him chuckle quietly as she walked away.

...


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set immediately following the Captain Marvel post-credits scene.

...

"I don't know if you all realize this, seeing as how most of you have never been there before, but outer space is a pretty big place," Rocket said sarcastically.

I'm arguing with a racoon. I must be insane.

"We're talking about a very specific frequency, though, Rocket. There's nothing else in space like FRIDAY, trust me. Except maybe VERONICA; that's why we're sending her there first, so she knows what to look for," he explained, patiently, for about the hundredth time.

"Signal in space, needle in a haystack... same difference."

"Thor is going to use Stormbreaker to make a few inquiries; we're gonna narrow it down."

"Sure, narrow down outer space. Great plan. Sounds like one of Quill's plans." Rocket muttered.

Bruce had never met Peter Quill, but he could tell it wasn't a compliment.

"Rocket, these are our friends. And yours. Don't you at least want to know where they are? If they're even alive?" Nat asked.

"I prefer to eat my feelings," the racoon shrugged. "Like Thor."

The Asgardian glowered at the racoon.

"What?" Clearly unrepentant, Rocket hopped down from his seat at the table.

"Do whatever you want; I'm out," he said as he departed.

Bruce couldn't honestly say he was sorry to see him go. He ran a hand over his face and looked up at the holographic displays again, watching as the numbers flashed and updated. He sighed.

"Carol? Any thoughts?"

"It's not a terrible plan. It's not a good plan, either."

He grimaced.

"Thanks. Thanks for that."

"You asked."

"Danvers, is it a workable plan, at least?" Steve asked, the first time he'd spoken in hours.

Carol nodded, but she didn't look happy about it.

"Then we have to give it a shot. Thor?"

Thor hefted Stormbreaker and indicated the direction of the exit with a jerk of his head; Carol followed him out—they would take the bifrost from the airfield to begin their reconnaissance mission.

Beam me up, Scotty. God, I need a drink.

"Should we say anything to Pepper?" Nat asked quietly.

He frowned, shaking his head.

"No; no, not yet. We have no idea if they're going to find anything at all, nevermind anything, you know, good."

She nodded in agreement, but her arms were folded across her chest and she looked pensive.

"It's just... she checks in every day."

He knew very well that Pepper wasn't the only one checking in every day; he'd seen Nat scanning radio frequencies, scouring the web, and interrogating her contacts for even a hint of Barton.

"When we have something to tell her, she'll be the first to know."

The words of comfort came from Steve; irrational irritation surged in Bruce.

Simmer down, big guy.

"Steve, for God's sake, go lay down," Nat scolded. "You were nodding off during the briefing."

For once, the soldier didn't protest. He simply got up and went.

"That's an improvement," Bruce remarked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Mhm," she said, leaning into him just a bit. "If he actually goes to bed."

She moved away again, and he felt the loss keenly.

"I'm going to check in with Rhodes; he said he would head back as soon as he could get away, but I doubt we'll see him tonight."

He nodded.

"You'll take first shift then," he said.

It wasn't a question. She was already settling into a stiff chair, eyes fixed on the displays. She didn't respond. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, conceding defeat.

"Wake me for the second shift. Let Steve sleep."

...


	12. Twelve

...

It was a holding pattern, and not a comfortable one. Every few days, Danvers sent Thor back to rest and recuperate while she continued to chase down leads. Sometimes the Asgardian was up for a debriefing; other times, he sequestered himself in his rooms and refused to speak with anyone. Once, he passed out as soon as his feet touched earth and slept for sixteen hours straight. He thought Danvers must be made of steel, if she was able to run Thor so ragged and never rest herself.

Shes's certainly made of stronger stuff than me.

He was eating, if only to keep Banner and Romanoff off his back. But he still couldn't sleep. If he did manage to doze off, more often than not he would jerk awake, heart pounding and drenched in sweat. He hadn't had nightmares since he was a kid; now he was having nightmares even when he was awake.

Steve sighed and rolled over in bed to glance at the timepiece on the wall.

I'm already awake; might as well.

He didn't bother getting dressed, or even putting on shoes, before going to find Natasha. He knew where she would be. She smiled when she heard him come in and looked up from the tablet she had resting on her lap; her smile turned into a frown.

"Expecting someone else?" he jibed.

"You know I am. Banner does the second shift. Go back to bed," she chided.

"Can't sleep," he told her honestly.

Her frown softened just a little, and she indicated an empty chair. He pulled it up next to her and leaned over, inspecting the screen she held.

Barton.

"Anything?"

"No. But Rhodes is helping now, so... maybe soon."

He made a small encouraging sound and settled back in the chair, studying the main display. The numbers just kept climbing as more and more dustings and deaths were confirmed.

"Steve."

Her hand on his arm dragged his attention away from the devastation for just a moment.

"You know Banner would give you something to help you sleep."

He shook her off angrily and stood.

"You know what, Romanoff—" he began, but she stood up with him and cut him off.

"We're not just trying to help you, you selfish bastard," she snapped. "We need your help, too. Rhodes is doing his best, but... well, Rhodes is a dick. There's a reason Tony likes him so much."

"I am helping," he felt stupid saying it; it sounded stupid coming out of his mouth.

Natasha rolled her eyes; clearly, she thought it was stupid too.

"You are suffering, Steve. And if you think you're suffering alone, then you need to open your eyes."

He ground his teeth, swallowing rage.

"If you don't want to take anything," she continued, "Would you at least consider talking to someone?"

"I'm talking to you."

"I'm a spy." She smiled, briefly. "Not a soldier. Why don't you see if you can get ahold of someone from Sam's old group down at the VA?"

It felt as though oxygen was being sucked from the room; he sat down hard and tried to breathe.

Sam.

"Steve? Please. You don't have to do this by yourself."

He felt her hands in his hair and he leaned into the comfort, closing his eyes.

"Please," she repeated softly.

Natasha didn't beg. But she was begging him now.

"I..." he hesitated. "I'll think about it."

She sighed.

"Better than nothing."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

She scoffed, dismissing the apology, and continued stroking his hair until his breathing evened out.

"Go back to bed, Steve," she said after awhile, starting towards her seat.

"No," he shook his head. "No, you go. I'll wake Banner up in a bit."

She eyed him suspiciously.

"Scout's honor," he said, holding up three fingers.

This time she laughed.

"I'll hold you to that, Rogers," she said, picking up her tablet and tucking it under her arm. "Banner will tell me if you don't."

It was his turn to roll his eyes.

"Yes, ma." he teased.

She smacked him on the shoulder with the back of her hand and left him alone with his thoughts.

...


	13. Thirteen

...

Bruce woke up to gentle but persistent rapping at his door. He looked at his watch, the screen the brightest point in his dark room.

My turn. Little early, though.

"I'm up," he called, fiddling with the timepiece so that it wouldn't alarm in a bit.

The rapping continued; usually, Nat only knocked if he was late to relieve her.

Something must be wrong.

"Coming!" he called, seizing his glasses from the nightstand and hurrying to get the door.

He pulled it open just as she was about to knock again, a little out of breath.

"What's going on? Is Thor back? Is it Steve?"

"No. And kind of," she studied him for a moment. "Everything's fine, Bruce."

"Oh."

Relief washed over him.

"So... Steve?"

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah; yeah, sure. It's a little messy... a lot, actually... just don't step on anything."

He hit the lights as he let her in, careful to take his own advice as he avoided stacks of paper and humming equipment. Thankfully, his apartment at the Avengers facility was considerably larger than his room in Wakanda; he proceeded to the kitchenette, where there was at least less of an organized disaster.

"Is this all work?" Nat queried, weaving gracefully through the maze.

"Um, the vast majority? There's a bit of personal stuff in there, but not much."

Up to my eyeballs indeed.

"Tea?"

"Coffee, if you have it."

He gestured at the Keurig on the countertop, and she proceeded to make her selection.

"Steve's taking your shift," Nat began, popping a pod into the machine. "I okayed it. We talked. He said he'd think about a support group."

Well, I'll be damned.

"That's a start," he said, and he could tell he sounded a bit awestruck despite his attempt to be casual; she glanced at him sideways and smiled.

"What? I'm impressed. He avoids me like the plague now."

"Well, you did tranq him."

He laughed.

"I did."

They enjoyed their respective hot beverages in a silence that seemed too full, and that seemed to stretch too long. He cleared his throat.

"So... um... this is nice, but if Steve's taking my shift... why am I awake?"

"Do you want to go back to bed?"

It was a simple question, but the way she regarded him over the rim of her mug made him feel like it was a complex equation.

"Um... kind of," he said, chuckling nervously.

"Alone?"

The kitchenette had never felt quite so small, before. She set her mug aside and took his gently from his hands, coming very close and resting her hands at his waist. His pulse quickened; the quiet beep of his heartrate monitor increasing accordingly.

"Bruce?"

It was a facade, carefully constructed, but there were cracks. Her eyes were bright and vulnerable; there was a real question there, and real fear.

"Nat, I..." he swallowed hard, scrambling for words, and settling on the first thing that popped into his mind.

"I adore you."

"You're a dork," she said, laughter bubbling past her lips as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

He couldn't help himself; he leaned into it, pulling her closer, one hand at the small of her back and the other behind her head. She traced along his jaw and down his neck with her fingertips, responding in kind. When her hands ghosted over his ribcage and dipped below the hem of his shirt, his heartrate monitor buzzed an alert; he was leaving the safe zone. He groaned, reluctantly pushing her back.

"We shouldn't," he said breathlessly, resting his forehead against hers.

"Shouldn't we?"

"No, I mean... we can't. I can't. I haven't; not since... before..." he trailed off, frustrated.

"So we'll take it slow," she murmured against his neck.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I'm not sure anyone in the world can take it that slow," he grumbled.

She laughed again, soft and low.

"I'm very talented," she purred, melting further into him.

He frowned, then; he knew she was teasing, but he despised any attempt to make light of her experiences in the Red Room.

"Relax, Bruce," she coaxed, pressing her lips to the corner of his frown. "You think too much."

He let her kiss him again, deeply, testing the limits of his self-control, before pulling back and dropping his head to her shoulder, vexed.

"I don't want to risk you."

She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his mouth, briefly.

"Trust me," she whispered.

He reached up and took one of her hands in his, turning it over to kiss the palm, waging a silent war with himself.

"Okay," he breathed, finally, like a prayer.

...

Later, much later, he lay propped up on one elbow, watching her sleep curled into his side, trailing his fingers absentmindedly up and and down her arm. He kissed the top of her head, tenderly. Her hair was soft and fragrant; the blonde had taken some getting used to. His alarm chimed again at his wrist, and he swiftly silenced it. He had to leave, and soon, to relieve Steve.

I've hit snooze... what, three times, I think?

This wasn't something he'd ever thought he could have; he had scarcely allowed himself to consider the possibility. It had been more of a dream, really.

And it only took two years and the end of the world to get here.

He was just about to extricate himself from their entanglement when his earpiece screeched on the nightstand; Nat's from somewhere on the floor. Outside, there was a flash of light and an enormous bang.

Nat sat bolt upright, eyes wide.

"Was that—?" She started to speak, but she was interrupted.

"Rogers! Rhodes! Romanoff! Banner! Rabbit! I have word!"

If he could understand Thor clearly with his earpiece three feet away, the Asgardian could probably be heard across the river in Connecticut.

"Too loud, Thor. Also it's four o'clock in the morning." Steve sounded tired.

"But Rogers, I have word of Stark!"

Nat met his eyes briefly, mouth dropping open for a moment before she shut it again with a pop. She was out of bed in an instant.

Jesus. Where the hell are my pants?

...


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Avengers: Endgame begin here. If the reader hasn't yet seen it, they may want to wait to read the remaining chapters until they've had the privilege.

...

There it was; the little piece of hot-rod red and gold armor on which all their hopes currently hinged. They had passed it silently around the table; Bruce had jabbered something about the nanotech requiring a power source even to function, which was apparently promising. Steve was currently turning it over and over in his hands, seemingly transfixed.

"Titan makes sense," Rocket was saying, "I mean, kind of. It's where he's from; not much there now, though. Bit of a graveyard."

"Steve," she tapped his shoulder and held out her hand for the shard of titanium alloy.

He frowned, closing it in his fist.

"For Pepper," she whispered, and his expression softened as he gave it to her.

"So Tony is on Titan, somewhere?" Bruce was asking Thor; she returned her attention to the conversation.

"He was; there were signs of a mighty struggle. There was even some of that... webbing, scattered about," Thor shuddered; apparently he wasn't a fan of spiders.

"That's Tony's kid," Natasha murmured to herself; then, louder, "Thor, what about the wizard?"

"Hard to say."

"When you go back there, I'm going with you," Steve's tone was insistent.

The Asgardian shook his head.

"We will not be returning to Titan, Rogers."

"So, what, Carol is just going to search an entire planet by herself? Don't be ridiculous Thor; of course we're coming with you," Bruce exclaimed.

"Banner, Danvers is no longer on Titan. A great deal of the wreckage near the battlefield showed signs of being recently disturbed; Stark is intelligent. Danvers deduced—and, I believe, rightly—that Stark salvaged enough parts to repair one of the vessels in an attempt to return home."

Home.

"Oh, so we're back to searching outer space. Great," Rocket snarked.

"Not all of space, Rabbit. She set a course from Titan to Midgard; the likeliest trajectory."

"Well, I'll be damned," Rhodes scoffed incredulously, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced.

"What about the Guardians?" she asked; it was hard to tell—he was a racoon after all—but Rocket looked pissed and hurt. "Any word on them?"

"They were last seen leaving Knowhere."

"Nowhere?" Banner queried.

"Knowhere. It's a place," Thor said by way of explanation.

"Oh, sure," the doctor made a face and nodded, feigning comprehension.

"But then," Thor continued, "So was Thanos, before he came here. Still, there is no reason to believe that they did not pursue him. So they may have also ended up on Titan."

"So they're with Tony, then." Bruce concluded.

"We have no way to be certain, Banner. We do not know when they arrived on Titan, or even if they did."

"So what do we do now?" Steve demanded, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest.

"Now..." Thor sighed and stretched. "Now, we wait."

...


	15. Fifteen

...

"Hey, baby face," Natasha greeted him, prodding his jaw; he could tell her heart wasn't in the taunt, but he rubbed his face self-consciously anyway.

"Yeah, it's weird," he agreed, sparing a sideways glance at her; her eyes were red, and she looked pale.

"Where have you been?"

"On the phone with Peter's aunt," she sighed, sinking heavily into the adjacent seat.

"I guess it's safe to assume that was... terrible," he grimaced, watching her face tighten.

"Pretty much."

A beat passed; they both stared solemnly through the med bay's glass at Tony, where he lay hooked up to monitors with Pepper asleep in the bed next to him.

"Steve, have you even moved? He's not going to disappear, you know."

"More often than Pepper," he sighed. "I just can't stop thinking about it; what he said."

"He was angry, Steve. He didn't mean it."

Oh, but he did.

He raised one eyebrow at her; she rolled her eyes.

"Alright; he didn't mean all of it," she amended. "Still; he's wrong, you know."

"Is he though? If I had been there, with him—"

"Then you wouldn't have been here, with us, where we needed you. Also, you'd probably be dead."

"You have a dark sense of humor, Romanoff."

"It's not a joke, Rogers," she said seriously. "Wakanda was your idea; if that battle had taken place anywhere else..."

She let the if hang in the air between them. He closed his eyes; he didn't want to think about it.

"Besides, with you and Tony both gallavanting around the galaxy, we would have been stuck with Rhodes. There. That was a joke."

He held his composure as long as he could muster before he burst out laughing; Natasha looked smug.

"Okay; you got me," he said, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Come on," she jerked her head towards the elevator. "Let's go get something to eat."

...


	16. Sixteen

...

Numb; no, disconnected. It would be almost like meditation, he thought, except for the gnawing emptiness. No, he'd spent a lot of time meditating; too much, maybe. This new wave of grief was nothing like that; it carried a sharp, hopeless, helpless edge that reminded him uncomfortably of a freefall, with no end in sight. The Garden had left them all raw and reeling, barely able to compose themselves, nevermind support one another.

By the time they got back, Tony had sequestered himself somewhere with Pepper, and he hadn't been taking their calls. Thor had gone, without saying where. Bruce wasn't sure the Asgardian even knew how to take a call. Rocket and Nebula had rattled around the facility for several days before heading to D.C. with Rhodes to start their paperwork.

Paperwork; there's always so much goddamn paperwork. Who the hell cares about paperwork, anymore?

That had left him, Steve, and Nat to orbit each other silently, like planets. Nat had seemed to channel her feelings physically, as she was wont to do; he'd lain awake nights, listening to her work the heavy bag in the gym below, wishing she would just come to bed. Once, he'd heard soft music instead, and had crept quietly downstairs to find her dancing. He hadn't stayed; even a brief glimpse had felt instrusive.

Steve, for his part, had actually asked for something to help him sleep. While the soldier had managed a shave and a real shirt when they'd heard Tony might still be alive, the Garden seemed to have drained him of all sense of purpose, and he had been practically living in sleepwear again. So Bruce was startled when he came into the common area dressed, carrying a jacket over his arm.

"Cap. Going out?" he queried, looking up from the work he'd spread over the table.

"Yeah; be gone awhile," came the clipped response.

Steve fished a protein bar out of the box on the counter, put it between his teeth, and shrugged into his jacket. Bruce considered asking where he was headed, but thought better of it.

"See you later, then."

Well, that's something, at least.

He tried to settle back down to work, but the numbers swam in their columns. He took off his glasses, put his head in his hands and sighed. He'd been at it for hours already; he'd likely be at it for hours more. And various departments in D.C. would keep hounding him to do more, faster, anyway.

Oh, what the hell.

Abandoning the various reports and requests spread haphazardly across the table, he decided to go and look for Nat. The gym and locker rooms yielded nothing, so he let himself in to her apartment instead, finding her seated, tablet in her lap, supporting her head with one elbow propped up on the arm of the chair.

"Hey," he greeted her, resting his hands on her shoulders.

She flinched at the slight contact, and he pulled back, giving her space.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Don't."

"Don't... what?"

"Apologize."

"Okay."

The silence yawned between them like a chasm.

"I thought it might be good if we talked," he tried, breaking it awkwardly.

"Bruce..." she half-groaned, half-sighed and rubbed her temples.

She stood abruptly, setting the tablet aside, and walked across the small sitting area to stand in front of the window, arms closed around herself protectively.

"I want to help," he said, following her, reaching for her, drawing his hand back instead. "But I don't know what to do; tell me what I can do, and I'll do it. What do you want me to do?"

"Bruce, I want you to go."

It wasn't the words themselves, but the finality of her tone that made his blood run cold.

"Go?"

"To D.C. That's where they want you anyway, and it's starting to sound more like an order than a suggestion."

Her reasoning rang hollow; her body language was icy. He swallowed.

"You won't be coming with me," he said slowly, measuring her reaction.

"No; no I'll be staying here. With Steve."

With Steve.

"Ah," he breathed. "I see."

His nostrils flared as he fought for calm, clenching and unclenching his fists. He opened his mouth to speak, several times, but he was at a loss for words. He braced one hand on his hip and ran the other through his hair, taking a deep breath and biting his lip.

"Okay... okay," he said finally, unsure whether he was talking to her or to himself. "If that's what you want—what you really want—I'll go. I'll go." He paused. "Is that what you want?"

"It is." She sounded very far away.

He scoffed and threw up his hands; he left to stop himself from saying any more, slamming the door behind him as he did so. Outside in the hall, he shouted wordlessly and threw a punch at the wall, which action he immediately regretted. Cradling a hand he hoped wasn't broken, he retreated to the solitude of his own room.

...


	17. Seventeen

...

It was starting to get dark; he flipped the lightswitch as he came into the common area in search of something to eat, tossing his keys onto the table.

"Someone looks windblown."

He startled at the sound of her voice; he hadn't seen her sitting there.

"Where'd you go?"

"Uh, the city, actually." He could feel himself flushing; he hadn't expected to have to explain himself—not yet. "I, uh, thought I might try one of those groups."

"Oh!" she seemed genuinely surprised, and set down her ever-present tablet to meet his eyes. "Oh, that's... that's good. Good for you."

"Yeah, I just sat in the back," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't say much."

"Mmm," she hummed, pursing her lips and regarding him quietly. "Still."

She returned to her work; if it could be called work. It was always Barton. Steve hesitated a moment before saying anything else, weighing whether he felt up to pressing her.

"I saw Banner on my way in," he said, pouring two glasses of milk. "He looked like he was leaving; lots of boxes."

"Mhm."

Her response was casual, but she stiffened. He knew he was on the right track; throwing caution to the wind, he plowed ahead.

"Natasha, why is Banner leaving?" he demanded.

"It makes more sense for him to work out of D.C.; it's just easier."

"Easier?" Steve repeated, raising his eyebrows.

She glanced at him briefly; her eyes were glistening.

"Simpler," she whispered.

He sighed and carried the glasses to the table, setting one in front of her.

"He loves you, you know."

"Love is for children."

He frowned; he had heard that phrase more often than he cared to.

"Nat, come on, you can still catch him," he said; she began to shake her head almost immediately. "It doesn't have to be this way."

When she looked up at him, her expression was furious and tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"I don't know any other way to be," she spat.

"What, alone!?" He exploded, planting his hands on his hips and staring her down.

She looked away and didn't answer; he scoffed, exasperated.

"You know what? Fine. Be that way. I'll be upstairs if you want to talk. Or whatever."

She recoiled from that last as though he'd slapped her, but just then he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

...

If he had a weakness, it was that he couldn't leave well enough alone. He bounced around his apartment like a pinball in a machine for all of fifteen minutes before he made his way outside.

Let's try this again.

Banner was out front, slinging file boxes into the back of a truck with more force than was strictly necessary, muttering—cursing—under his breath.

"Nat said you were leaving," Steve said by way of greeting; the other man ignored him and picked up another box. "Can I help with anything?"

"Nah, Steve, I think you've helped enough."

He bristled at the accusation.

"What is that supposed to mean?" He demanded, stopping the doctor with a firm hand on his arm. "Banner."

Banner dropped the box and threw off the retraining hand.

"Don't you Banner me; you know exactly what I mean!" he said, seething.

"No, I don't. Why don't you enlighten me?" Steve said evenly, folding his arms across his chest.

The doctor gestured dramatically in the direction of the facility.

"She's all yours, Cap. Congratulations," he said, snorting derisively.

Steve saw red; he wasn't aware that he had hefted Banner by the shirt collar and pushed him up against the cab of the truck until said action had already been performed; then he decided that was as good a place as any.

"You're a cowardly son of a bitch; you know that!?" he snarled.

"Language!" Banner bit out sarcastically.

Steve slammed him into the side of the truck once more for good measure, adjusting his grip. Banner scrabbled at his forearms and tried to steady himself; he was now on tiptoe, on eye-level with Steve.

"Shut the hell up. Look at you, scurrying out of here with your tail between your legs; do you know how to do anything besides run away?"

"Get off me," the other man said, glancing at his watch and looking suddenly nervous.

"I'm not afraid of you, Bruce. The Hulk's been MIA since you hit the ground on Bleecker Street; he's not coming out now. He's probably just as sick and tired of your bullshit as I am."

The doctor looked confused, but he continued, undeterred.

"Yeah, that's right. A lot went down while you were gone, so let me fill you in. I picked up the pieces after Sokovia; not because I wanted to, but because you were gone. Because you ran. Without her. You left her."

Banner paled.

"That's not—I didn't—"

"Yes, you did."

"That was the other guy!"

"For Christ's sake, Bruce, would you take some goddamned responsibility for once!? The rest of us have made a lot of bad decisions; a lot of mistakes, but at least we ownthem. Hell, we almost ripped each other apart over a goddamn piece of paper, and then we were on the run for two years. So yeah, we got close," he hissed that last directly into Banner's face and watched with grim satisfaction as the other man's jaw clenched.

"And you know what? She taught me a lot. Decisions aren't always black and white. People aren't just good or bad, heroes or monsters. We're all a little bit of both. You're no exception; so stop blaming the other guyfor your own shitty decisions, and for everything else you hate about your life!"

Banner stared at him, mouth dropping open a little. Piece said, Steve suddenly felt very tired. He set the doctor on his feet and stepped back, trembling. He leaned over and braced his hands on his knees, out of breath. Banner brushed down his shirt front and tugged at his collar, swallowing hard. Neither man said anything at all for several minutes.

"She doesn't want me here," Banner said finally, sounding dejected.

"She doesn't want you to leave, either," Steve answered, straightening.

Banner made a face and shook his head.

"I don't know about that, Steve. She seemed pretty clear. And hell, maybe..." he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don't know; maybe the space will be good. Give us some time to think."

"I told you once not to wait too long, Bruce," Steve reminded him.

"Yeah; you did. And I told you once that I thought we'd missed our window."

"Yeah, you did."

There wasn't anything else to say, really. Banner went to retrieve the box he'd dropped; Steve made himself useful carrying equipment, and together they finished loading the truck in silence. When they were done, Banner picked up his duffel bag, fished the keys out of his pocket and stood jingling them, glancing back over his shoulder at the facility.

"I'll call when I get to D.C." He said finally.

Steve nodded and lowered his head, conceding defeat.

"Well, no one can say I didn't try. Don't be a stranger, Bruce."

"Yeah," Banner tossed the duffel into the passenger seat and shut the door. "And Steve?"

He looked up to meet Bruce's eyes.

"Thanks. For everything. Really."

"You too."

The two men embraced briefly, clapping each other on the back, before Bruce climbed up into the driver's seat and brought the engine roaring to life.

Steve stood unmoving, watching his friend drive away into the gathering darkness, until he could no longer see the taillights.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> This is my attempt to tie up some of the loose ends Marvel didn't have time for, and to fill in some of the gaps the Russos left us with.
> 
> The ambiguity surrounding the nature of Steve and Natasha's relationship is intentional. I drew most of my inspiration for their interactions from Winter Soldier and Civil War, from Sam's line in Infinity War, delivered during the reunion between Natasha and Bruce: "This is awkward.", and from Natasha and Steve's conversation pre-Garden in Endgame.
> 
> Minor details about Steve Rogers were lifted directly from The First Avenger.
> 
> I've found the glossing-over of major developments in Bruce's character stilted and dissatisfying since Avengers, and while "I'm always angry," could be forgiven, Bruce's explanation of his frankly stunning transformation into the "Professor Hulk" persona in Endgame was laughable. I mean, sure, it was written as comic relief, but still—no one makes such enormous strides in self-discovery without significant motivation, which I have done my best to give him in this final chapter. I borrowed important information and imagery from The Incredible Hulk.
> 
> I repurposed a few of the iconic lines from the original Avengers film and from Age of Ultron for this fic.
> 
> I welcome all reviews.


	18. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers... I lied. Or at least I underestimated how much headspace and mental energy a story tries to take over once you've started writing. After watching Endgame again, I was struck by the exchange between Bruce and Steve just before Cap's mission to return the Infinity Stones to their rightful places in the timeline. Why would Bruce find it so important to confide to Steve, in particular, that he had tried to bring Nat back, with the Gauntlet? At what point did these men arrive at their mature understanding of how much this woman meant to each of them, and to each other? So here are six more chapters, with a small disclaimer: They are not a part of my original fic, though they do extend it. And I'm not sure if even I, the author, like them. So if you think the original fic was great, you might want to stop right here and let it be. If you have no fear, read on.

...

He was half asleep when he heard his door swing open; he thought she might make herself comfortable on the couch—she did that from time to time, when she didn't want to be alone but wasn't ready to face him yet—but he was wrong. She padded in softly and pulled back the covers, climbing into bed beside him. Steve sighed and extended one arm; she rolled into him, hiding her face against his chest, her breathing shaky.

"Nat, you could call him," he said after a moment; he could feel her shaking her head. "He'd be back in a heartbeat."

"I know," she mumbled. "I don't want that."

"What do you want?"

She propped herself up on her elbow and leaned over to kiss him; he had known that she would.

"Don't," he said softly, against her mouth; his protest sounded weak even to him.

"I want to forget," she whispered, kissing him again. "Steve. Please."

He knew that he was a temporary distraction, at best. A surrogate, at worst. He hated himself for giving in; for wanting to. Every touch was betrayal—of Bruce, of her, of himself. He hated the part of himself that didn't care; the part of him that also wanted to forget.

"Just tonight," he heard himself say, gathering her closer and breathing her in.

He knew it wouldn't be.

...


	19. Nineteen

...

"How long are you here for?" Steve asked, hefting one of his bags and bracing his heel against the door to hold it open.

"Just the long weekend," he answered, glancing around the common area, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed by Nat's absence.

Steve took his other bag from him, and deposited both in front of the elevator before resting a hand on Bruce's arm.

"It's good to see you," he said earnestly.

"Yeah," Bruce smiled. "You too, Cap."

"Bruce?"

He turned at the sound of Nat's voice, unable to parse her tone.

"Nat," he greeted her, awkwardly.

For a moment she looked stricken; then her gaze flitted from him to Steve, and he watched her features darken as something unspoken passed between them.

"I won't be here all weekend," Steve said evenly, as though the most deadly woman on the planet wasn't glaring daggers at him. "Rhodes and I are headed out Sunday night; I'll put something together for dinner while you get settled in."

He'd given himself the perfect excuse to leave the two of them alone together.

Smooth, Steve.

Bruce cleared his throat.

"How have you been?" he asked.

Nat had been murdering Steve with her eyes as he walked away, but now she looked back to him, and her gaze softened slightly.

"I've been all right," she answered, sighing. "Steve called you?"

It wasn't really a question; he felt himself flush guiltily.

"Sorry," he apologized, though he didn't know what for.

"Stop that," she snapped, sounding exasperated. "Come here."

He was surprised, but he obeyed, meeting her halfway as she embraced him. She kissed his cheek, and the side of his neck, before resting her head against his chest. For his part, he buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply.

"I've missed you," he whispered, eyes prickling.

She didn't answer, but she sniffed a little as she stepped away from him to pick up one of his bags and punch the call button for the elevator.

"Let's get you settled in," she said, too breezily. "You can tell me what you've been up to in D.C while we unpack."

...


	20. Twenty

...

"Come in," Bruce called in response to his tapping, and so he did.

Though he'd been invited, he immediately felt like an intruder. They fitted back together like puzzle pieces; Bruce was seated in the corner of his sectional, one leg bent and the other extended, while Natasha rested between them, reclined comfortably against his chest. Neither of them looked up, both intent on the screen of her tablet.

"I just came up to let you know that there's food," he began, but Bruce cut him off, summoning him with a gesture.

"Steve, come and look at this."

Intrigued, he obeyed. Natasha drew up her legs to make space for him to sit, extending them over his lap when he had done so and tilting the tablet so that they could all see. It was cellphone footage—grainy, shaky, and brief—but what he saw made him suck in a sharp breath. The figure in the video was hooded, but it was impossible not to recognize the way he moved—with lethal ease.

"Where did you get this?" he hissed, attempting to tug the tablet closer; Natasha wouldn't let go.

"Rhodes," Natasha answered shortly. "He just sent it; one of his government contacts passed it along."

"When was it taken?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," she tapped the screen, minimizing the video and revealing the diagnostics she had running in the background.

"That is Barton then? You're sure?" Bruce queried; Steve nodded.

"Absolutely."

...


	21. Twenty One

...

Pins and needles dragged him out of his unconscious state; his leg was killing him. He tried to straighten it, but to no avail.

Ow.

Disoriented by his unplanned nap, he blinked and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, trying to get his bearings. It was dark, but the still-running tablet provided a soft, bluish glow from where it rested on Nat's chest; she felt heavy and loose in his arms, letting him know that he wasn't the only one who had nodded off. He shifted her carefully, hoping to alleviate the tingling in his leg, and frowned when that provided no relief. He realized then that Steve was there too, stretched out on his stomach with his head pillowed in Nat's lap; one of her hands rested on the soldier's head, and her fingers were threaded through his hair. His arms were wrapped around her hips; that was Steve's elbow digging into the side of his knee.

Shit.

The easy familiarity of their entanglement stung; he wasn't an idiot, after all. But Nat's other hand was wrapped around his own neck, and her head rested just over his heart. There was comfort and intimacy there, too. A cascade of complex emotions were interrupted by his grumbling stomach; they never had gone down to eat supper. He tapped Steve's shoulder, gently. The soldier jerked at the contact and his eyes flew open.

"Easy," Bruce murmured. "I just need you to move your elbow."

He did so immediately, and Bruce hissed in pain as his circulation returned.

"What time is it?" Steve groaned, still bleary-eyed.

"I don't know; late, I think."

Steve's expression changed as he took in their position, seeming to realize for the first time where he was and who he was with. He started to extricate himself almost immediately, but Bruce steadied him with a hand on that same shoulder—the only thing he could reach.

"It's fine; don't. Don't wake her."

The soldier slowly released the tension in his arms, letting himself drop back to his former position, though he took care to mind his elbow. He also averted his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

He almost missed his friend's whisper; half-confession and half-apology. Bruce took a deep breath, attemping to quiet the warring factions of his mind and heart.

"Why?" he demanded, finally. "She needed you. Needs you."

"You love her," Steve said, stubbornly.

"So do you."

"It's not the same."

"Does it matter?"

Steve didn't answer right away; his shoulders rose and fell slightly in the best approximation of a shrug he could accomplish in his current position.

"You're my friend; I feel like it should."

"You don't have to be so goddamn noble all the time, Steve. You're a human being."

Steve looked up then, meeting his eyes, and they regarded one another quietly for a few minutes; their silent contemplation was rudely interrupted by long, loud growling from Bruce's stomach. Steve smirked, and Bruce chuckled quietly.

"We should get up; I just hate to wake her," Bruce muttered, glancing down at the woman asleep in his arms.

"She's not asleep; she's eavesdropping," Steve accused.

Natasha's brow furrowed, betraying her immediately.

"No. I'm just comfortable," she insisted, snuggling closer. "Ten more minutes."

"Nat, I'm hungry," Bruce said, responding to her teasing in kind.

"Get up, Romanoff," Steve commanded, laughing quietly as he pushed himself upright and stretched.

Nat stuck her tongue out at Steve, childishly, before tucking her face into the curve of Bruce's neck and pretending to go back to sleep. Rolling his eyes, Bruce dug his fingertips into her ribcage; she squealed, jumped up, and smacked his arm.

"Fine! Fine I'm up. Let's eat."

...


	22. Twenty Two

...

"You guys look like a basket of puppies," Rhodes said, sinking into a chair with a plate of reheated supper.

They had relocated to the common area to eat and resumed a comfortable sprawl; Bruce was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, with some of his ever-present work and the remnants of his dinner spread out on the coffee table in front of him. Natasha lounged on her side behind him, head pillowed on the arm of the couch, one arm wrapped loosely around his neck and shoulders. Her feet were in Steve's lap; he occupied the lion's share of sofa, arms spread out across the back of it, remote in one hand as he flicked through the channels with glazed eyes—the airwaves were occupied almost exclusively by newscasts and reruns, these days.

"Jealous, Rhodes?" Natasha snarked.

"Not really," Rhodes made a face and shook his head, forking up another bite. "Have you had a chance to look at what I sent you?"

That got Steve's attention; she felt him tense and saw his eyes regain their focus.

"Yeah. What can you tell us about that?" he demanded.

"Have you pinned down the source yet?" Rhodes demanded, ignoring Steve to inquire of her.

"The IP was spoofed, but the packets mostly bounced around between South American servers—Brazil, maybe."

"Brazil?" Bruce looked up from what he was doing. "That's a good place to disappear, if that's what you're trying to do."

"It was sent to my contact anonymously; whoever recorded that wanted us to have it, but otherwise they weren't so forthcoming," Rhodes groused.

"Which means they're probably the bad guys," Steve said, glancing in her direction.

"I'm very good at finding the bad guys, Rhodes. It's been less than 12 hours; give me a little credit."

"What I want to know is what the hell he's doing down there, and how long he's been doing it. He's actively avoiding contact with our people; who is he working for, and why? Does he even know about—" Rhodes paused and shot her a measured glance. "... about Laura and the kids?"

A lump rose in her throat; Bruce reached up and took her hand.

"Barton took a deal, Rhodes," Steve snapped. "He wouldn't even let me spring him from the Raft. He wouldn't risk his family for a job; not again. He knows."

Rhodes had the grace to look embarrassed. Guilty, even.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Just frustrated."

"Rhodey, was there any audio?" Bruce asked abruptly.

"Yeah; I sent it for translation. We should have the transcript in a few days."

"Play it," Bruce demanded, sitting up straight. "I speak some Portuguese."

"Of course you do," Rhodes muttered, looking only mildly surprised. "Hold on."

He dug in his pocket for his phone, then thumbed through his saved files for several agonizing minutes.

"Here."

The audio was garbled, with lots of background noise—mainly screaming, some shouting. Narration was minimal. She strained her ears; she understood Spanish, which shared a few cognates with Portuguese, but she could only pick out a few words from the chatter.

Louco. Loco. Crazy. Morrer. Morir. To die.

"Play it again," Bruce requested, cocking his head to one side.

Rhodes played it several times; Bruce's expression grew steadily darker, and Natasha grew increasingly impatient.

"Banner, what is it?"

It was Steve who finally gestured to Rhodes to stop the audio loop and pressed Bruce for an answer; Bruce's grip on her hand grew tighter.

"Most of it is just noise," he began, shakily. "Whoever is recording just keeps whispering, 'He's crazy, he's crazy,' over and over. There at the end, where it sounds like begging? Clint says something," Bruce turned to look at her. "He says—I think—'You deserve to die. They didn't.'"

She withdrew her hand from Bruce's and sat up, swinging her legs off Steve's lap in order to stand. Her heart was pounding in her chest; it was hard to breathe, nevermind speak, but she forced the words out anyway.

"I need to be alone."

...


	23. Twenty Three

...

"Is this better or worse than mind control?" Bruce asked.

Steve sighed and put his head in his hands.

"I don't know. Worse, I think. Maybe. I don't know."

They were sitting on the floor in the hall, flanking Natasha's door. Rhodes had gone to bed some time ago, offering what small comfort he could and urging them to get some rest.

"I get it, I think. Barton, I mean. I wanted to kill Ross, after Betty died. It just didn't seem fair. It wasn't right."

Steve glanced over at the doctor, whose expression said that he was miles and years away. He didn't know much about Bruce's past; he knew that there was bad blood between the doctor and the secretary, and that it had something to do with Ross' daughter, but that was all.

"I don't want to get into it," Bruce said, seeming to realize what he was about to ask. "I'm just trying to make sense of things. Sorry."

Steve brushed off the apology; it wasn't really necessary.

"So how does this work, anyway?" the doctor asked. "The last time I tried to comfort her, she told me to leave. And the time before that she chucked a bottle of vodka at me."

"I recommend a shield," Steve deadpanned, and Bruce snorted.

"That's more your area of expertise," he responded sardonically. "Cover me?"

Steve nodded, levering himself up off the floor and giving Bruce a hand.

"Any time."

No chaos greeted them; this seemed a quiet, well-ordered sorrow. In a way, it was almost frightening. The room spun for a moment, and Steve felt vaguely ill.

"You okay?" Bruce said, pitching his voice low and looking at him with a concerned expression.

"I'm fine," he nodded, taking a deep breath to compose himself. "Let's go."

They found her in her room, not asleep, but lying on her side in bed, curled into the protective posture that was so familiar to him, now. Bruce went to her immediately, sitting down on the edge of the bed; he seemed unable to do otherwise.

"Nat?" he said softly, brushing her hair back from her face, fingertips lingering where her natural red was starting to grow back in. "What can I do?"

"I have to find him," she was hoarse from crying, and she clutched at Bruce's hand.

"You will," Steve said, taking a few hesitant steps nearer.

She raised her head to look at him; it appeared she'd been expecting only Bruce, but when she saw him, she reached for him, and he too found himself drawn forward by that same inexorable force. He took the proferred hand, and she laced their fingers and held both his and Bruce's hands to her chest, needing them both. He exchanged a desperate look with Bruce as she sobbed quietly between them.

We are so fucked up.

Bruce gathered her into himself and lay down, tucking her head under his chin and making soothing sounds. With his eyes, he indicated that Steve should do the same, so he settled himself against her back, resting his forehead on her shoulder and wrapping his arm around her waist.

"Shh, shh. It's okay. We're here; we've got you."

Steve bit his lip as tears spilled over his own cheeks.

Relationships are complicated. Grief is messy. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm done with this fic, now. We'll see if it's done with me.


	24. Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand there's more. Apparently a global pandemic puts me in the mood for obsessively reading FanFiction, which apparently also puts me in the mood for writing more fanfiction. Enjoy.

...

"Un-fucking-believable," Rhodes was muttering, shaking his head in disgust as he came out of the conference room.

"What is?" Natasha didn't look away from the monitors as she put the question to him.

"That was Secretary Ross," Rhodes huffed. "He wants to hold a press conference."

"So? He has one of those every day," she said blandly, reaching up into the matrix in order to adjust the size and position of several windows.

"He wants to address 'public concerns' about 'enemies of the state' seen assisting in the relief efforts," Rhodes expounded, his tone sharpening as he crossed his arms and leaned back against her desk in a manner painfully reminiscient of one absent genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.

Natasha rolled her eyes; across the room, she heard Steve snort.

"He wants Steve to make a public declaration of loyalty."

That got her attention. She abandoned the code she was writing and spun in her chair to face Steve, who looked both startled and annoyed.

"Suit up for some very public ass-kissing, Cap," Rhodes snarked.

"Rhodey... " Bruce chided, pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose to stare disapprovingly at the colonel.

"Oh, you're not off the hook, doc," Rhodes said, turning to Bruce. "He wants you, too."

"Me?" Bruce nearly yelped, catching his glasses as they fell off his face. "Why?"

Now it was Rhodes' turn to roll his eyes.

"Gee, I don't know, maybe because the last time the world saw the Hulk he was attempting to level Johannesburg?"

"That's not the last time the world saw the Hulk," she couldn't help but interject, but Bruce was already standing up, running his hands through his hair in agitation.

"No, no, no. I'm not good with crowds, Rhodey," he said, sounding a bit desperate.

"Bruce, you'll be fine," Natasha soothed. "You're in D.C. all week, every week , surrounded by people. There hasn't been a single incident."

Bruce met her eyes briefly before becoming suddenly and acutely interested in his own feet. An uneasy feeling crept over her as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Bruce?" Steve had noticed too, then.

"The lab in D.C. is... very secure," Bruce said quietly, his expression pained.

She could feel the color drain from her face; her fingernails dug into the arm of her chair, and she pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Shit," Rhodes breathed.

"Fuck, Banner, why didn't you say anything?" Steve exploded, sending his chair skidding across the room as he stood. Not giving Bruce time to formulate a response, Steve rounded on Rhodes. "Did you know about this?"

"No, I did not," Rhodes said icily, though his tightly controlled anger did not seem to be directed at Steve. He straightened and stepped away from her desk, addressing the AI in a strong, clear voice: "Friday, get Secretary Ross back on the line, please. Now."

"No, Rhodey... guys, really, it's fine..." Bruce flailed both emotionally and physically; sincere appreciation and mortifying embarrassment flashed across his features in waves. Natasha put a reassuring hand on his arm, and he patted it absentmindedly as the call connected.

"Mr. Secretary," Rhodes barked in greeting, and the seated man in the hologram jumped in surprise. Friday apparently hadn't felt the need to ring.

"Colonel Rhodes, this is my private line," Ross said stiffly, collecting himself quickly. "This had better be a matter of urgency."

"I urgently need to address Dr. Banner's working conditions," Rhodes snapped, cutting the other man off.

Ross' image waved a dismissive hand in Rhodes' direction. "Dr. Banner's working conditions are a matter of national security," he answered curtly.

"Dr. Banner is currently the world's foremost expert in numerous fields and should be treated as such," Rhodes' rebuttal was firm and unyielding.

"Dr. Banner is a ticking timebomb!" Ross snarled, standing up and stalking around his desk to loom over Rhodes.

Natasha could feel tremors racing up and down Bruce's arm.

"Rhodey, please hang up," he pleaded softly.

"Sir I would like to point out that Dr. Banner has gone months without incident," Rhodes pressed on doggedly, ignoring him. "Even when such incident might have been in the interest of national... no, global security."

Bruce sat down abruptly, buried his face in his hands and groaned. Natasha rubbed his back soothingly as Rhodes and Ross continued their verbal sparring match, their voices rising with each bout.

"Colonel, I will not tolerate any further insubordination. The matter is closed. Dr. Banner is being recalled to D.C. immediately!"

"With all due respect, sir, you can go fuck yourself!"

As Ross' expression became nearly apopleptic, Rhodes abruptly disconnected the call, firing off several more colorful swear words. Steve, who had been blinking like a deer in the headlights for the duration of the call, let out a low whistle.

"Well, that was... interesting," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"I really fucking hate that guy," Rhodes grumbled. "Asshole."

Natasha couldn't help but smirk; she did enjoy seeing Secretary "Thunderbolt" Ross taken down a peg, consequences be damned.

"Banner, you can ignore that recall order. It's not like they're going to send in the National Guard," Rhodes addressed Bruce directly for the first time. "Seriously man, it's not worth it."

Natasha was about to chime in with concurring sentiments when she noticed Steve square up suddenly, staring fixedly in her direction.

In Bruce's direction.

Bruce let out another groan, but this time it was lower and more strained.

No. Oh no.

...


	25. Twenty Five

...

Steve felt as though someone had taken a jackhammer to the inside of his ribcage, his heart was beating so hard and fast. He saw Bruce double over with a grimace that was neither self-deprecation nor debilitating social awkwardness; it was a desparate attempt to stay in control.

"Romanoff," he said as evenly as possible. "Get back."

She was seated right next to the doctor; was touching him, even.

How had she not noticed?

She met his eyes briefly, her expression unfathomable, before fixing all her attention on Bruce.

"Oh shit," Rhodes breathed, scrambling in a rather undignified way to put distance between himself and Banner. Despite the confidence he had expressed only moments ago, his eyes were as wide as saucers.

"Bruce, breathe. It's okay; it's okay," Natasha was murmuring softly, spilling to her knees in front of Bruce and placing her hands over his, trying to turn his face up to hers.

"Get back!" Bruce managed through gritted teeth, fisting his hands in his hair as he twisted up and away from her determinedly.

"Not a chance, big guy," she said, her demeanor shifting. Steve would recognize the lullaby voice anywhere.

"No!"

Steve would also recognize that guttural voice anywhere. He darted forward and snagged Natasha's elbow, attempting to pull her back, but she shook him off.

We're not prepared for this.

They were all in street clothes, and all unarmed. His Wakandan shields were upstairs, uselessly propped against his nightstand. Rhodes' rig was downstairs in the garage, nowhere near as sophisticated as Tony's nanotech, and utterly inaccessible at the moment. Not to mention that none of them had seen any action since the Garden.

"You've... got to... get out!" Bruce's voice again.

"Rhodes, Romanoff," Steve barked, indicating the exit with a jerk of his head. "You heard the man."

Rhodes retreated just beyond the doorway and paused, his expression pained.

"I'm sorry."

Steve barely registered the soft apology; he was fixated on Natasha and Bruce, the latter huddled in a heap on the floor, writhing in physical and mental anguish as familiar and terrifying ripples of green ebbed and flowed along his skin.

"Natasha!" He said urgently.

She only shook her head in response, still murmuring softly to Bruce, who flinched away from both her voice and her touch. Steve started forward again when Bruce turned suddenly and grabbed her, but he held her only long enough to thrust her roughly away from him.

"Go, now!" He howled, his voice a strange mixture of the Hulk's and his own.

Steve caught Natasha as she staggered backwards, and took the opportunity to speak quietly into her ear.

"We have to go; give him some space," he said firmly, evenly, knowing full well that there was no such thing as enough space for the Hulk.

Natasha's eyes glittered dangerously.

"I am not leaving him!" She hissed vehemently, but her voice cracked.

Steve was torn between his desire to protect her and his desire to respect her. He looked again at the doctor, his friend, as he fought an impossible internal battle that Steve could never begin to understand. Bruce looked up then, meeting Steve's icy blue eyes with his own bright green.

"Steve, please," he panted desperately, gaze flickering between Natasha and Steve. "Please... I can't..."

Steve nodded to indicate his understanding, and set his jaw; he knew what needed doing. He trapped Natasha's arms against her body with one arm, wrapping the other around her waist and lifting her off her feet.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, choking up as she fought him every step of the way.

He tasted blood in his mouth as she drove the back of her head into his lower lip, cursing at him in Russian. She twisted and kicked and—goddamnit, she bit him!—but he pressed forward with staunch steadfastness.

"Friday, barn door protocol!" Rhodes nearly yelped as Steve stumbled across the threshold of the command room with his precious, furious cargo.

"No!" she shrieked as the reinforced steel security panels began sliding into place.

Behind him, he heard the Hulk roar.

I'm so sorry.

...


	26. Twenty Six

...

"Stop twitching," Rhodes snapped in irritation. "You're worse than Tony."

Steve frowned at the comparison, but he mustered up the willpower to sit still through the last few clumsy sutures.

"Thanks, Rhodey," he muttered, wincing as he gingerly touched the newly-closed gash under his eye.

"Yeah, well, you can't exactly stitch up your own face," Rhodes grumbled, tugging off a pair of nitrile gloves and sweeping the armful of used first-aid supplies into a wastebasket. "You're lucky you don't scar, Captain Pretty Boy. I'm shit at sutures."

"I hadn't noticed," he snarked back, feeling the jagged edges under his fingertips.

"Stop touching it," Rhodes swatted his hand away from the wound, sighing tiredly. "You know you could have ducked."

Steve flushed guiltily.

"I've had worse," he said, standing up from the table and rummaging in the cupboard for a glass.

Rhodes rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. You didn't have to just stand there and take it; you made the right call in there."

Did I?

He chewed his bottom lip, forgetting that it was split, and swore softly when it started bleeding profusely... again.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Rhodes groused, standing up. "Nobody listens to me."

He shoved a roll of gauze at Steve's chest and snatched the glass, turning towards the fridge as Steve dabbed cautiously at his swollen mouth, closing his eyes.

...

Another enraged roar rattled the compound as Natasha wrapped an ankle behind his knee, tripping him backwards onto the floor. He hung on grimly as she wrenched an arm free, listening for the soft snick of the panels locking into place. The elbow she drove forcefully into his solar plexus was unnecessary; he had already slackened his grip to let her go. Coughing, he sucked in air as she punched commands into the control panel just outside the door, heedless of the danger within.

"Friday, goddamnit, manual override!" she cried, and he could hear the desperation in her voice.

"Nat... stop..." he wheezed, feeling for all the world like that asthmatic kid from Brooklyn as he found his footing and levered himself up off the floor.

Her efforts proved fruitless; Friday either couldn't or wouldn't obey the order. With Tony's AI, it could be hard to tell, sometimes. A few tense moments passed, during which the only sounds came from within the control room: heavy pounding, the screech of metal being wrenched out of shape, and a deep, pained keening that set Steve's teeth on edge and made him want to stuff his fingers into his ears.

"Guys, I don't know if that's going to hold," Rhodes said urgently. "We need to get out of here."

"We can't just leave him like this!" Natasha nearly sobbed.

"We won't," Steve heard himself say; Rhodes glanced his way, clearly alarmed at the prospect.

Natasha went suddenly quiet as she whirled away from the control panel to glare at him, eyes glistening.

"You," she spat furiously, advancing on him. "Already did."

His vision grayed around the edges when her first punch connected; he barely registered the rest, considering them his due. In the end, Rhodes had dragged her off of him—no small feat—and ordered her to stand down, shouting the command directly into her face. When she came back to herself, dissolving into tears, Rhodes had caught her in an awkward embrace, looking over her shoulder at Steve with something like pity in his eyes.

...

"Ice," Rhodes dragged him back to the present, taking the gauze out of his hand and replacing it with a package of frozen peas wrapped in a towel. "And beer," he said, holding up two bottles and giving Steve a pointed look.

With a sigh, he thumbed the caps off of both bottles before handing one back to Rhodes, who clapped him on the back as he returned to his seat at the table.

"You know, it wasn't so bad, as Hulk-outs go," he mused conversationally, taking a long draught.

Steve grimaced, and this time it had nothing to do with his cheek. Or his lip. Or any of his dozen or so darkening bruises.

"No," he reflected, taking a cautious pull on his own drink. "No, it wasn't."

The smashing and roaring had lasted only a short time; Rhodes had been a hairsbreadth from calling for a full evacuation when eerie quiet took its place. Friday's scans had shown that the Hulk was still in residence; other than during or just before a lullaby, Steve had never seen the big guy so still. As far as he knew, Natasha was still downstairs, camped out just outside the reinforced panels, waiting.

"I think I'm going to take this," he said, holding up the beer, "and head down to see how Romanoff is doing."

Rhodes made a face; Steve had caught him with his mouth full. He swallowed heavily.

"Make a pit stop and grab your shields, man."

Steve rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to make a smart comment, but Rhodes cut him off.

"I'm serious. I know it's just Banner, but... well. You know."

He did know. He nodded stiffly, accepting the advice, and took the stairs up to his apartment two at a time.

...


	27. Twenty Seven

...

"It's so quiet."

Steve's voice cut across the actual quiet, startling her. He fiddled with the fastening one of his shields, graciously pretending not to notice as she swiped away tears.

"I can hear him in there, talking to himself," she volunteered hoarsely.

"Here," Steve said, holding out a bottle. "I don't want it."

Natasha accepted the proferred drink, took a sip, and grimaced.

"I can see why," she deadpanned, setting the beer aside.

Steve sank to the floor beside her with a groan, putting a hand to his chest as he did so and wincing. For the first time, she noticed the ice pack he was holding to his mouth. Shame flooded her; just because he healed quickly didn't mean that he didn't feel pain.

"Thank you," she said abruptly. "You made the right call in there."

Steve shrugged.

"Don't mention it," he muttered, setting his free hand over hers consolingly.

She withdrew it with a hiss of pain; her knuckles were raw, and one was split. Steve frowned when he realized, and wordlessly passed her the icepack.

"I'm sorry about your face," she said, eyeing his split lip as cool relief spread through the inflamed joints of her hand.

"I'm sorry about your fists," he sniped back.

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards in spite of her dark mood; she picked up the terrible beer and took a long swallow before leaning to the side to rest her cheek on Steve's shoulder, all forgiven.

If only it were always so simple.

"Are those really necessary?" she asked after awhile, tapping the shield strapped to the arm nearest her.

"I hope not," Steve said soberly, sighing. "He was afraid of this, Nat. That he wouldn't be able to come back, if this happened again."

"I know," she whispered. "I'm afraid too."

She felt Steve twist to look at her and ducked her head; she couldn't meet his eyes just then.

"I just... I can't lose anyone else."

Rhodes' heavy metallic footsteps interrupted anything Steve might have said in response.

"Guys... Friday says Tony's calling," Rhodes informed them; the colonel's voice was rough with emotion, too.

Natasha straightened; Tony hadn't been in touch for months.

"Put him on, Rhodey," Steve said, somewhat urgently, moving to stand.

Rhodes put a hand on shoulder, both to keep his fellow soldier seated and to support himself as he settled against the wall on the other side of Steve, answering the call as he did so.

"Rhodey, didn't anyone tell you not to poke the good doctor with pointy things?"

Rhodes rolled his eyes.

"Good to hear from you, Tony."

"Uh-huh. Seriously though, what gives? Alien hordes can't throw off Bruce's groove, but Ross blows off a little steam and..." Tony finished the sentence with explosion sound effects.

"Tony, whenever I have to take a call from Ross, Banner heads for the hills. There's history; I should have known better."

"Yeah, well. Have Nat sing him a lullaby already. It's been hours."

Rhodes glanced sideways at her past Steve, who stiffened at the suggestion; it wasn't subtle.

"I don't think that's going to be an option this time, Tony," Rhodes said slowly, seeming to measure each word as his eyes darted back and forth between them.

Tony scoffed.

"Call Thor, then. Bruce said that worked a trick on the last go-round."

"Thor?" Steve seemed unable to help the question, surprise evident in his tone.

Tony's lack of response to the soldier did not go unnoticed by any of them; she watched a muscle twitch in Steve's jaw as he clenched his teeth.

"Thor hasn't been taking our calls either, Tony," Rhodes said acidly, breaking the silence.

"I'm not sure Point Break has a phone," Tony answered musingly, ignoring Rhodes' accusation. "You could always send Sprocket an email."

"The raccoon?" This time Natasha is the one unable to help herself. "Rocket has an email address?"

"Duh," Tony said, and if he'd been physically present she might have kicked him. "Friday has it."

Because of course she does.

"Thanks Tony; we'll give that a try," Rhodes responded, and even she can't tell whether he's saying it just to humor Tony or whether he's seriously considering it.

"Okay. Well, Pep's making dinner, so. Gotta run. Later Rhodey. Bye Nat." A moment passed; Tony didn't hang up. Then, quietly, "Cap."

...


	28. Twenty Eight

...

Thor arrived a day and a half after Natasha sent the email, looking considerably scruffier than the last time she'd seen him, and absolutely reeking of alcohol; it was as though he had bathed in it, though it was clear he hadn't bathed in several days, at least. She decided not to mention either of these, and had dug her nails into Steve's shoulder when it seemed as though he might.

She held a brief, tense argument with the super soldier in the hallway as Thor keyed in the override commands Tony had sent Rocket.

"Nat, Bruce was pretty clear about not wanting you in there. Maybe we respect his wishes, for once?"

It was a low blow; she narrowed her eyes and flexed her bicep meaningfully under his firm grasp.

"Let me go, right now," she said icily, letting the or else go unsaid.

He released her immediately, putting both hands up in a gesture of surrender. He stepped back, shaking his head, and with a small jerk of his arms extended the tips of both shields. Thor was already shouldering past the first panel into the dark and damaged room, utterly without fear. She counted out ten seconds before she slipped in behind him, ducking gracefully into a corner and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

"Hey there, big guy," Thor greeted the Hulk, crossing the room in three long strides. "Haven't seen you in awhile."

She heard Hulk huff in response, but he didn't move from where he sat against the far wall. He'd been just a shape when she entered, but his features were slowly coming into focus. He looked... lost.

"You missed a big battle," Thor continued, a slight edge creeping into the Asgardian's voice.

"No; no miss. Thanos." The Hulk replied, shuddering.

A chill ran down her spine, then. She had heard the Hulk speak before, but never with such clarity... and never with fear so evident in the rumbling voice. She looked over her shoulder at Steve, who was peeking around the doorframe with an intent and interested in expression on his face.

"Yes. Thanos," Thor sighed, sounding incredibly tired.

"Well, Hulk," he continued, "You don't need to worry about Thanos any longer; he is dead. I killed him."

"Thor sad," Hulk observed.

"Yes," the Asgardian said thickly. "Thor sad."

The Hulk shuffled forward then, extending one arm, and Natasha tensed; behind her, Steve drew a sharp breath. But Hulk's hand came to rest on Thor's shoulder with something approaching tenderness; Thor reached up and took a firm grasp on Hulk's arm before leaning into him and bursting into tears. What followed was the fastest come-down Natasha had ever seen; the Hulk shrank rapidly, without a fight, and suddenly Bruce was staggering under the full weight of a sobbing, mighty Thor and looking utterly nonplussed.

"Thor?" he squawked. "What are you doing here? What's going on?"

Thor's sobbing was rapidly escalating into wailing, and Bruce patted him awkwardly on the back for several minutes, eyes darting around wildly and taking in the damage. He hadn't seen her yet; slowly, so as not to startle him, she slid out of her shady alcove and into his line of sight

"Thor, hey, Thor, buddy," Bruce took the Asgardian by the shoulders and leaned over, tearing his gaze from Natasha's in order to look Thor in the eye. "Let me at least put some pants on."

"Why?" Thor snuffled wetly. "I've seen you naked before."

Bruce groaned and put a hand to his face. "Don't remind me."

"Here," Steve said then, entering the room with a small bundle tucked under one arm.

Bruce's eyes darted between Steve's face and the shields on his arms as the soldier held out a pair of sweatpants. Steve shrugged somewhat sheepishly.

"Thought you might need these," he said, by way of explanation, and Natasha could see that Bruce wasn't sure whether he meant the shields or the pants.

"Right," Bruce responded, "Thanks."

He traded Steve the pants for the still-weeping Thor, who buried his face in the soldier's shoulder. Bruce turned his back to shimmy into the garment, addressing his next question to Steve.

"How long was I out?" He asked, and she could hear the note of anxiousness in his voice.

"Three days," she said, finding her own at last. "Give or take."

He breathed a sigh of relief as he straightened up and turned to face them again.

"That's not so bad," he said slowly, giving the control room—and his friends—another once-over.

She saw the moment when he finally noticed Steve's eye, which had been steadily turning a spectacular shade of purple ever since it's unfortunate run-in with Natasha's fist.

"Did I... did I hurt anybody?" Bruce asked, voice small.

"No," she supplied helpfully, jerking her thumb at Steve. "That was me."

Bruce glanced back and forth between them nervously.

"Do I want to know?" he queried.

"Probably not," Steve said glibly, shifting under Thor's weight; the Asgardian had left a large wet spot on the solder's shirt and was now hiccuping quietly. "Welcome back."

...


End file.
